


Six Dresses

by Shut_Up_Marius



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, A Foggy fetish, F/M, Girl!Foggy, He is a bit of a creep, Is Matt a creep, Marci's a good egg, Matt's got a bit of a fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-22 18:11:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16603025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shut_Up_Marius/pseuds/Shut_Up_Marius
Summary: Foggy's relationship with dresses is complicated.Matt's relationship with Foggy's dresses is much simpler. He loves them.





	1. The Flannel Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my humble contribution for the Girl!Foggy tag.

"Okay, I think I'm almost done here," Foggy says as she puts down the brush she was running through her hair and opens... her mascara, by the smell of it. "I told Marci I'd be there half an hour ago so if you haven't seen me by noon tomorrow, it's probably because she murdered me."

"Couldn't it be because you got laid?" Matt asks, reclining on Foggy's bed, trying hard not to frown at his own suggestion. He doesn't really want her to get laid. Well, if it makes her happy then by all means, but it's stupid and a bit masochistic of him to encourage it considering the major crush he has on her.

She barks out a laugh. "I'm not particularly looking to get laid tonight, but on second thought, maybe wait until two to call the cops. Okay, could you go in my closet and get me the leather jacket?"

"You mean the faux-leather one?" he teases. "Sure." 

"I'm sticking my tongue out at you, Murdock. In a mature way."

Matt gets up as Foggy uncaps her lipstick and goes to feel up her clothing rack. He's been in there enough times that he knows where everything is in the tiny space, knows the bottom shelves where Foggy keeps her tshirts, her pants, her underwear (this one he makes a point of never touching, it’s a whole other level of creepy). He also knows she hangs her two jackets on the far right of the rack, next to the half a dozen dresses she owns.

"Hey, Foggy," he calls out as he takes down the jacket Foggy requested.

"Yeah?" 

"How come you have so many dresses but you never wear them?" It's a simple enough question but Foggy stops what she's doing to consider the answer.

“I guess I never have the nerve to wear them outside. I look good enough in the changing rooms but then... Dresses require a confidence I don't always have, I suppose? They can be a nice ego boost, though." She shrugs. "I just shrugged. It's complicated but it's no big deal."

The lack of self-confidence is uncharacteristic of his best friend, Matt thinks as she stands up and brushes imaginary dust off her jeans with a nervous cough, like she's afraid he's going to push the conversation.

Truth be told he kind of wants to, but Foggy's halfway out the door and he doesn't want to make her any more uncomfortable than he's already made her. God knows there are certain things he wouldn’t want her to pry about.

"Are you satisfied, then?" he asks her with a smile as unthreatening as he can muster.

"Satisfied? Oh, with how I look right now? Yeah, I look good. Booty-lifting jeans are the future and my top's low-cut enough that some people should have trouble looking me in the eye, but not too much thanks to the jacket. Do you want me to twirl for you?"

"Please." She does, with a mischievous little laugh that sends butterflies flying inside Matt's stomach. "You look great, Fog. Sure you're not looking to get laid?" 

"Well," she replies, drawing the word out. "I'm not going to fight it if it happens, I wouldn't want to disappoint my many fans. Come on, I've got to get going."

She presses his cane into his hand and drags him up to a standing position. As usual, she's a bit too energetic and he stumbles into her trying not to step on her toes. Her heart rate picks up as she apologizes but he doesn't get to analyze the response because they're already in the hall, Foggy locking the door behind her.

"Still not coming?" she tries one last time.

"Nope. Be safe and I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright. Goodnight, Matty."

She puts a hand on his forearm, gets on her tiptoes, plants a quick peck on his cheek then she's gone, a whirlwind that only leaves a cloud of Foggy behind. That and a best friend with a dopey smile on his face and a serious crush.

***

"Girl, you're looking good today!"

"Foggy, oh my God, why don't you dress like this all the time?"

"This is so your color!"

"Haha, thanks, guys," Foggy replies, a slight tremor in her cheerful voice. She ducks her head and clears her throat.

People keep on interrupting their conversation just to comment on how Foggy is dressed today; it's making Matt's morning coffee experience less pleasant than usual; the bench they're sitting on is harder, the mid-September sun isn't as warm and Foggy isn't laughing. He also doesn't appreciate the implication that Foggy has days when she's not beautiful.

"What's going on?" he asks like he doesn't know.

Because he knows. He knows Foggy's wearing a dress: he can hear it brush against the tights she's wearing. He also recognized the noise her combat boots made when she stepped outside her dorm where he was waiting for her to go get their morning coffee. She's mostly hiding the top of it with her jacket and a scarf, but it's definitely a dress.

"Nothing, it's just... I'm wearing a dress, people aren't used to it so they're making a big deal out of it," she dismisses with a shrug, like it's not actually a big deal, like she didn't tell him about the whys of her dresses just a few weeks ago. Like her heart isn't going faster than usual, like she's not gripping the edge of the bench in nervousness.

"You must look very pretty if everyone's commenting on it," he says with a supportive smile. He wants to ask what's changed, why now, but he refrains.

"I look great! I just wish the entire student body didn't feel the need to give me their opinion."

"Can I-" he starts before he realizes how creepy his request would sound. "Nevermind."

"No, come on, can you what?"

"I was going to ask if I could – touch it, to see how it feels since I can't actually see it. It's okay if you don't want some guy to feel up your dress, it's a bit creepy," he adds hastily, a bit ashamed. He also really wants it.

" _'Some guy'_ , right," Foggy chuckles, but he could swear it's breathier than usual. "Like you're not my best friend. Go ahead, Matty. It's just a flannel shirt dress, though, don't expect anything couture."

"Okay. Um," he starts, hand hovering in the air. He's not sure where he's allowed to touch, because he wants to touch everywhere.

"Oh, right, let me, um-" 

She takes his hand and gives him the hem of her dress just above her knee, gasps when he grazes her thigh ("Are those fingers or icicles, Jesus"). The flannel's very soft under his fingers, body-warm. Matt wants to burrow into it, put his face to Foggy's stomach so he's enveloped by her. He's the creepiest friend ever. Foggy's heart is going as fast as his, probably because she's regretting doing this – he wouldn't blame her.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he offers as another classmate compliments her on her attire and she groans a little. "I can walk you to your building if you want."

"Yeah, let's go," she exhales shakily as she stands up. Matt makes an effort not to whine at the loss of contact and gets to his feet, too, slips a hand around Foggy's forearm so they can start walking.

"It's very soft. What color is it, then? I've heard it looks good on you," he asks casually. She chuckles.

"It's red and black plaid, nothing fancy. I basically look like I'm wearing an oversized lumberjack shirt with a thin black belt under my breasts," Foggy replies, missing cool and collected by about two hundred miles.

Matt is blushing as all hell as well. It's fine, he's nineteen and blushing because a woman said "breasts", he's a mature man, not a prepubescent boy. Except now, his fingers are hitching to get back on Foggy's body and take that belt off with his teeth. God, he needs to get laid.

"So I guess you could say I'm going for sexy lumberjack," she adds before she mutters "oh my God, shut up" under her breath.

Matt clears his throat. "I'm sure you look amazing and I'm definitely sorry I can't see it for myself, Fog."

"Thanks, buddy," she says with a pat to the hand that's resting on her forearm. "It means a lot coming from you." Her hand stays there, her thumb stroking his knuckles and it's... good enough. 

He still needs to get laid, though. ASAP.


	2. The Halloween Dress

"I'm getting there, Matty, I promise. You've been so good for me," Foggy murmurs, leaning in close. Matt's barely breathing. "And. Here. You. Are," she says as she throws down the brush she's been using on his face.

She steps back to admire her handiwork, gently turning his head this way and that by the chin, making satisfied little noises and calling him her masterpiece.

"You make a great zombie. No offense, of course! And now it's my turn," she trills as she goes into her closet. "Make yourself comfortable, have some more vodka, this could take a while!"

"We have forty-five minutes before we have to leave," he says as he plops down on Foggy's bed, leaving the chair by the mirror to her. He takes a swig straight from the vodka bottle they’ve been passing back and forth. Just a little something to get them in the mood.

The stuff she caked onto his face smells like poor quality make-up, especially around the eyes where it's thicker, and the trails of blood running from the corners of his lips are dry and itchy, but he's Foggy's masterpiece. She was so close these few precious minutes, they were breathing the same air. If Matt had been any braver, he would've leant up and interrupted her good-natured ramblings with a kiss, something short but sweet. He didn't. 

"You say that like I have plenty of time. You can't rush awesomeness, buddy. I sure am trying to," she says right before Matt hears a painful thud and some jumping around. "That was my elbow, dammit!"

"Are you okay?" he asks, concerned.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. At least that bruise will be real."

He keeps on hearing noises: elastic bands, a zipper, cloth sliding against cloth, some huffing, some groaning, more thuds until-

"Matt, you wouldn't happen to know how to tie a corset, would you?" Foggy asks as she emerges from the closet, slightly out of breath. "Mine's giving me... a bit of trouble."

A corset? Matt's knowledge of corsets is limited to: they're tight, they make girls look like their waist is tiny and their chest is enormous, they're the symbol of everything that's wrong with the patriarchy and veritable torture devices, starting with how you fasten them.

"I could try?" Honestly, he'll do pretty much anything if it means getting to touch Foggy. "I don't think I'll do worse of a job than you, anyway."

" _Hey!_ " she shoves at his shoulder gently. "Get up and stand behind me, Mister Sassypants. Get a feel of the laces and how they criss-cross."

Matt does. His hands find Foggy's hips first, where he feels the coton of what's a pretty imposing dress considering the long skirt is pressing against his pant leg. There must be quite a few layers there. 

His hands climb up Foggy's sides softly, the satin gliding under his fingertips. Foggy swallows hard and takes a shaky, quiet breath in. Matt relocates to her back and starts following the laces with his fingertips, almost like he's reading.

"There are two longer bits in the middle on each side, can you feel them?" Her voice is a bit deeper than usual and it's doing things to Matt's body like sending goosebumps down his back. She waits until he's holding the part she's talking about. "Good. I'm just going to need you to tighten the laces like you would on shoes, except you start from the bottom up to the middle and from the top down to the middle. Just make sure it's not too tight. I don't want to die on Halloween, it's too cliché."

"Okay." What do you know, his voice has gone all deep, too. His throat feels like sandpaper. "I'm going to go slow, you tell me if you can take more."

"You know I trust you, Matty."

For once, things are mostly silent as he works except for Foggy's breathing. He's hyper aware of every inch between them, every intake of breath when he tightens the laces a little more, and he can hear hairs stand on end where his breath ghosts over her exposed skin. Matt's pretty efficient, probably only takes fifteen minutes to tie the two laces together in the middle. 

"You're done, I think." 

Pulling away feels wrong so he keeps on fidgeting with the laces a little. When Foggy turns around, her skirts billowing around her, she finds herself face to face with Matt and chokes on her thanks. They're standing so close, as close as they were when she was doing his make-up, when he almost-

Foggy's cell pings by the mirror and the tension shatters, Foggy immediately sauntering away to get it. Matt stands there a few seconds as she looks at the text she received. When he comes back to his senses, he's so bummed he wants to tell Foggy he's not going to the stupid Halloween party. He's got some serious wallowing to do. He only gets some of his good mood back thanks to more cheap alcohol and Foggy's catching enthusiasm.

"So, what are you going as?" he asks.

"That's right, I never told you! Well, I guess you could say I'm a dead Victorian lady? From like, the very modest bourgeoisie, because I can't look that fancy on my budget."

"The corset begs to differ, it's... really nice to the touch. Is it silk?" It's not. Polyester at best. It still feels nice on Foggy.

"I have no idea to be honest: I found it in a thrift store with Marci. I thought to myself, Foggy, this is your last Halloween before graduation, make it count and be pretty. So I did."

"Good for you. I think you'll definitely be a hit: this costume... it felt very nice," he repeats, kind of lamely.

"Someone's got a fetish," she sing-songs, a chuckle in her voice but Matt still sputters and blushes to the roots of his hair. Hopefully the make-up hides most of it.

"You know I like soft things, it's not a fetish!"

"I know, I know! Sheesh, where's your sense of humor, Murdock? Okay, my make-up's done, my hair will take fifteen more minutes so we're officially late. I can't believe you thought forty-five minutes would be enough."

"It would've been if you'd managed the corset on your own," he points out just to be a pain.

"Hey! Sorry I'm not an octopus and I was unprepared for the task. I don't wear skirts and corsets every day, if you'll recall! You did really well, though, I'll make sure to come to you for all my future corset-related issues," she says airily.

Matt's opening his mouth to reply when his brain supplies him with a vision of Foggy asking him to help her out of the corset and he just... checks out for a little while. He only snaps out of the fantasy when Foggy abruptly stands up from her chair and declares them ready to go.

Foggy wins most historically accurate costume and several phone numbers that night. She's got trouble moving around sometimes because her skirts are so big, but it's a good conversation starter. The people she talks to all seem to have trouble concentrating on what she's saying and he hears a couple of comments on what a "generous bosom" the corset gives her. He curses his lost sight like he hasn’t in a long time.

He goes home alone, unhappily drunk while Foggy leaves with some guy whose name Matt doesn't bother remembering. He only listens in on them until he's sure the guy isn't a psycho killer. He finishes the bottle he swiped before he left the party so he doesn't accidentally-on-purpose hear someone who's not him help Foggy out of her corset.


	3. The Peplum Dress

Matt's already sitting at the firm's conference table, anxious, when Foggy walks in and heartbeats instantly speed up. He'd chalk it up to high blood pressure considering all the gentlemen (he uses the term loosely) in the room are in their late fifties, but it'd be too much of a coincidence. They're so loud Foggy's apology for being late gets drowned out.

She puts a delicate finger on his naked wrist as she sinks in the chair next to his, an apology just for him in the feather of a touch. There isn't time to enquire what warranted a half hour delay on the day of the most important meeting of their short-lived careers so far; Foggy's already pulling out the files from her bag and spreading them on the table to give the flawless introduction he heard her rehearse at the office.

Those heart rates kick up each time Foggy leans over the table to hand out documents and Matt's a bit at sea for someone who should be hyper focused, too busy wondering what's happening to those men (Did they see someone behind Foggy when she came in? Are they being threatened? Their client is an important man with a lot of enemies…) until he hears the telltale sound of tights rubbing together. Foggy hasn't worn a dress since they opened their practice. Matt can't help it, he lets his awareness grow to try and get a sense of what is going on. Except he... doesn't get much, aside from a lot of warmth coming from his partner's body.

He's frustrated for the rest of the meeting, which actually gets him back on track, sharpens his arguments and makes him meaner (Foggy calls him "a wolf in duck's clothing"), so they emerge semi-victorious from the room – they refuse the opposition's generous settlement in favor of an actual trial where Matt is eighty percent sure they'll wring out much more than the original sum they offered.

As soon as everyone's gone, Foggy grabs Matt by the lapels of his suit and tugs him behind some kind of plant to whisper, "Oh my God, Matt, we. Kicked. Ass."

He stumbles into her – Foggy still gets excited sometimes – and he has to grab onto her so he doesn't topple over like the helpless blind guy he's supposed to be. He slips a steadying hand to the small of her back and... starts to maybe understand why those men sounded like they were having a stroke. The material under his palm is like a second-skin, clinging tight to Foggy's body. No wonder he couldn’t feel anything, there’s barely anything _to_ feel.

"Sorry, sorry," she says as she rights him up. "We were so good, I can't believe it! Well, yes, I can believe it. We need to high-five. High-five me, Murdock, come on."

He obligingly puts a hand up for her to high-five. "Those guys sounded pretty distracted, do you know what was going on?"

"Oh, um, it might have been my fault? I couldn't swear it on my life or anything," she says in an unusually small voice. "I'm wearing a dress: kinda tight, kinda short, cut low enough. It's a peplum dress, do you know what a peplum dress is - probably not: it's got a skirt thingy at the waist. It's black, though, I wouldn't call it outrageous or anything. Marci said it'd help me make a statement. Do you think it was too much? Do I look like a harlot? Oh God, Marci would totally make me look like a harlot thinking it's what I'm going for, bless her heart."

"Foggy, Foggy! Breathe, okay?" he interrupts her panicked rant with as reassuring a smile as he can and a chuckle. "You can dress any way you want. How you cover your body is nobody's business but yours, alright? Who told me that?"

" _I did_ ," she replies through clenched teeth. "Because I was wearing _sweatpants_ to go to a _lecture_. This is so not the same thing."

"True, but. I'm sure you don't look like a harlot," he says with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows. Foggy gives a manic little laugh.

"You haven't seen the dress. Go on, touch it." Something explodes behind Matt's eyes (his brain, probably) as Foggy moves a few branches to check if someone else is there. "Go on, I promise you won't look like a pervert, everyone's gone. See for yourself."

There's an "I dare you" in there, something that means "if you don't do it, it's probably because you're scared you're going to touch something inappropriate, ergo the dress is inappropriate and I'm right". Matt wishes Foggy's confidence didn't depend on what she's wearing today because she's amazing no matter what; she could be wearing a onesie, sweatpants or nothing, he would still want her, would still think the world of her.

He holds his hand out to her with the blind equivalent of a pointed look and she wraps her hand around his wrist. It's a bit clammy; maybe she's regretting this already, so he makes sure he's standing a large step away so he doesn't crowd her. She places his hand on her hip where he spreads his palm and she lets him go, giving him free reign.

His world instantly narrows down to Foggy, all his senses hyper focused. She smells delightful, like the strawberry Poptart she had this morning and the unscented body wash she keeps on using even though they're not roommates anymore. He follows the curve of her hip, appreciates how much of it there is to enjoy, smoothes his hand down her thigh until he reaches the (admittedly high) hem of her dress and just... stays there. She's so warm, she's- significantly warmer than before, and she’s making a conscious effort to keep breathing evenly. 

He hopes she doesn't notice how accurate his aim is when he lifts his other hand to trace up her bare arm, goosebumps rising as he goes until he reaches the place where the fine skin of her shoulder meets the strap of her dress. Her breath hitches again, loud in his ears though he's pretty sure she's trying to suppress all the beautiful noises her body is making. His thumb crosses to the inside of the strap straight to where her pulse is racing.

Matt steps in closer and gets a rush of satisfaction when her heartbeat jumps for him. He doesn't dare go much farther down her neckline but he thinks Foggy would let him: the sweet scent of her arousal is all around him now and her body is all but vibrating under his fingertips.

The circumstances are all wrong, though: here Foggy is, asking nothing but friendly reassurance, and he manages to abuse the situation. He's a straight freak, which really says something considering how he already intrudes on her private life on a daily basis. Taking advantage of his best friend in a time of need, though? That's a new low, even for him.

"Matt," she breathes faintly. She's so gorgeous. Flawless. Absolutely perfect, Jesus.

He yanks his hands back and steps away from her. "It's a, uh, it's a nice dress." God, he sounds wrecked. He’s also perilously close to being half-hard, pissed off at the world and frustrated.

"Oh. Well, thank you for clearing that up. I'm – um, going to go," she says, already walking backwards towards the exit, "I'm supposed to meet Marci for lunch, I can't wait to tell her about how we stumped those old dudes. I'll see you later, bye!"

It takes Matt a good twenty minutes to get a grip and come back from whatever subspace Foggy's body put him in. He can still taste her in the back of his throat and hear her breathing echo between his ears; it's driving him insane and it feels like no amount of meditating will ever make it stop. 

He is so screwed.


	4. The Plunging Neckline Dress

The screech across the apartment makes Matt's spine stiffen, awakening the bruise on his side. He stiffles his groan in his half-empty glass of scotch.

"Foggy-Bear! Oh my God you look gorgeous!"

"Thanks, Marce. A bit louder for the people in the back, maybe?" Foggy chuckles as Marci's door slams behind her. She's wearing a dress, which Matt has come to recognize as his personal brand of kryptonite. It's flowy and only reaches down to mid-thigh. His hands itch to touch so he presses down on that bruise again to distract himself. It works, mostly.

"I'll do you one better," Marci laughs. "I will personally escort you around the party and introduce you to everyone who's single and looking."

"Marci..." Foggy sighs, a put-upon smile in her voice. "I brought a bottle of tequila; I had a feeling wine wouldn't be the vibe of this shindig and I think I was right."

Indeed, Marci's place is packed with too-loud people who are already well on their way to being drunk, swaying a little to the upbeat music coming through the speakers scattered around the apartment. Matt tracks Foggy and Marci from his vantage point by the living room's open window as they weave between guests.

"All I'm saying is a beautiful young woman like you should not be single in a city as big as New York! Simon, have you met my friend Foggy? Simon works at the stock exchange and he's single." She sing-songs the last word. Matt just threw up a little in his mouth and it's not only because Simon reeks of hair gel.

"A pleasure, Simon!" Foggy replies with an easy handshake. "Please excuse Marci's enthusiasm. I will gladly come back to chat once I've actually had the time to put my stuff away," she adds as she shakes her coat and purse in Marci's face.

Matt takes another sip of his drink to pass the time and pretend he's not hardcore eavesdropping on his best friend. He chats for a bit with some guy whose name he forgets instantly while Foggy charms people left and right with her wit and her sense of humor. Following a conversation is hard when he's so focused on her he can tell she's wearing the earrings her mom got her for Christmas, the ones with the two little pearls that clink together when she moves her head, and he drops the ball completely when he hears her say his name.

"Is Matt here?" she asks casually. "He said he might show up."

Something comes out of Marci's mouth that is half a sigh and half a groan and makes her sound like the spawn of a dragon and a witch she probably is. "Yes, he is. He got here about twenty minutes before you did and he brought a bottle of tequila." Foggy barks out a laugh. "Murdock's presence isn't a pre-requisite for you to have a good time."

"I know! I was just asking!" 

"Have you talked about-"

"Nope! Nope, nope, nope, we are happily and very awkwardly pretending the entire thing never happened. It makes me feel spectacular about myself, as you can guess. Cheers!" she toasts before she tosses her drink back.

"Foggy-Bear..." Marci sighs.

Matt regrets leaving the office: Foggy was at the courthouse all day; if he hadn't showed up, he could have avoided the punch to the gut he always gets when Foggy appears with her congeniality and her charm. 

He really needed to get plastered, though. He thought maybe it'd help him forget what a colossal asshole he is. Except now it's being rubbed in his face. Legitimately so. He still can't believe he was such a giant dick to his best friend, the sweetest creature on the planet. Who behaves like that, seriously. No one. Only giant dicks.

He didn't know how to bring up his assholery, though. "Hey Foggy, by the way, sorry I groped you in public when you'd just asked me to tell you you were pretty"? There's literally no way to spin those words that would make him sound less sinister.

"...Can you believe it?" the guy he's talking to exclaims, momentarily tearing him away from his spying and his self-flagellation. "Like, he told me that to my face! Who does that?"

"Giant dicks, that's who," he answers with a nod. "I know all about giant dicks: I am one."

He's slurring his words a little. Maybe he shouldn't have downed those two shots the minute he came in; there's loosening up and then there's getting drunk so fast you can't even appreciate the slow descent into intoxication.

"Come on," Marci is saying when he tunes back in, "I'll introduce you to Simon: he's funny, smart and on his way to becoming rich so you should snatch him up while he's still available!"

"Thanks, Marci." Foggy doesn't sound thrilled. "I'm not sure-"

"None of that with me, Nelson," Marci replies sternly. "You dressed to impress, didn't you? I mean, that plunging neckline is making me a bit lightheaded, it can't be a happy accident."

"I tried. I actually got this dress shopping with Karen. We found it in the maternity section, they have such nice dresses for women with big bellies!"

"It's like I always say, play up your strengths! Simon seemed quite impressed with these two strengths you've got on display here. Should we go test this theory?"

Foggy's good-natured laugh carries above the music as she tells Marci to lead the way.

And here Matt is again, feeling like a pervert, fantasizing about his best friend, objectifying her. He loves Foggy, he does; crushes are supposed to die a quiet death whereas his thing for Foggy is... a roaring hellfire regularly sprayed with industrial-sized amounts of fire accelerant. He's so gone for her it's ridiculous. And dangerous: the criminal he was interrogating (gently roughing up for information on Fisk) the night before had taken full advantage of his split second of distraction when his ears had picked up on Foggy coming up from a block down the street. The guy had slashed him across the abdomen, leaving a nasty gash behind. Matt had just wanted to make sure she wasn't coming closer.

"Simon! You remember my friend Foggy?" Marci starts her spiel and Matt starts forward. "I'm feeling very generous tonight so you can borrow her. Treat her well, though, I want her back in pristine condition. Well, not too pristine if she is so inclined. After all, she is exceptionally mouth-watering tonight. Doesn't she look pretty?"

"Foggy's always pretty. What she's wearing is... anecdotal." There's a bit of a stunned lull as everyone turns towards him. "Hey, Fog."

"Hi, Matt." Her tone is as flat as she can make it but he doesn't miss the way her heartbeat picks up. He's still not exactly welcome, then.

"Murdock! How can I help you?" Marci cuts in, both verbally and physically as she puts herself between him and Foggy. Matt has never wanted to smother someone with a pillow before so Marci must be as special as Foggy insists she is.

"I just wanted to say hi. Simon, was it?" He makes sure his smile is all teeth and he sticks his hand out like he would a spear.

"How do you-"

"Matt Murdock." His turn to interrupt Marci. "I'm Foggy's partner." Simon's handshake is limp as a noodle. Typical.

"They work together," Marci insists with a snarl, and Matt can just imagine her with her fists clenched at her sides. Foggy puts her hands up and inserts herself between Matt and Marci again, probably to prevent bloodshed.

"Okay, stop! Both of you! Matt, what the hell?" She sounds so confused and angry. He never wants her to feel like that because of him. On the other hand-

"Sorry. I just- I guess I just- Wanted to say hi. And you look pretty."

She blushes but- "Are you drunk?" she asks quietly, almost sadly. God, he wants to hold her.

"No! Well, yes. But not fall-into-a-manhole drunk," he smiles, hoping an old inside joke will break the tension. Like every last one of his plans lately, late-night activities included, it doesn't work.

"Go home. I'm calling you a taxi, okay? We'll... talk about whatever this is tomorrow."

He knows better than to try and argue against their mock trial class's best debater (three semesters in a row), especially in his inebriated state. Truth be told, he feels like the saddest sack and he hates that he's making a spectacle of himself, too. He thinks about putting up a fight anyway, because that's what he does, he never folds, but it's Foggy and, even though there are things he needs to say to her, now's not the time. So he gives a sharp nod.

"Okay," Foggy says, and she sounds relieved like she was dreading he wouldn't comply and make this harder on everyone. She knows him too well – which actually prompts the question-

"Why do you stick around?" he mumbles as she steers him away from the others and towards the front door with a hand on his elbow.

She sighs, strained. "Because you're my best friend, Matt. Did you have anything with you? Your briefcase?"

"My briefcase, yes, in Marci's room, I think. Foggy-"

"Not right now, buddy, I'm warning you. I'm gonna go get your briefcase, you stay. Right. Here." Matt stays, chafing and frustrated as ever. "Okay, your taxi should be here in five," she says when she comes back, pressing his briefcase against his hand for him to take. "Can you get downstairs on your own without breaking your neck?"

"I'm not that drunk."

"A true relief."

"Foggy-"

"Tomorrow, Matt." She opens the door with a finality that hurts. "We'll talk tomorrow. Goodnight."

They don't talk. The next day, Foggy finds out he's the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.


	5. The Butterfly Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is SO LONG.

It's been four months since his life went to hell. Fisk is behind bars but the death toll was so high that the victory left a sour taste in Matt's mouth, and even though he and Foggy talked things out after she found out about the Devil, the weight of his secrets still hangs heavy between them. It's infinitely better than when he thought he was never going to see her again. They're better now and, even though it's still far from perfect, the relief is immeasurable. 

They hug it out one night at Josie’s when both of them are drunk enough to be carefree about their affection again. Matt probably holds on too long and too tight but Foggy doesn't pull away, merely hooks her chin over his shoulder, shuffling closer. The next time they see each other, though, they've regressed to being tentative, awkward friends who forgot how to talk to each other.

Disappointing Foggy again is out of the question, which is how he finds himself on a train to New Jersey at ass o’clock on a Saturday morning to go attend the baptism of Foggy’s sister’s first child – “After all,” Foggy had said, “Candace invited you.” The ride is uncomfortable and the platitudes are excruciating until Foggy calls him an "asocial poodle" and breaks into a contagious fit of giggles. It's like the sun peeking through a stormy sky, the promise of something better, and when they finally catch their breath again, they're both smiling. 

When they finally get to Candace's house, after a half hour ride from the station in Anna Nelson's car, it feels just like old times. Maybe it's being in a familiar setting with familiar people, away from everything that's caused them so much pain, but at any rate, Matt feels good. At peace. Getting to experience the way Foggy behaves when surrounded by her family, like she's three hundred percent herself, three times more enthusiastic and loud and just happy, it makes Matt want to curl around her and stay there forever. 

"Both of you go change, now," Foggy's mom orders once they've been kissed and hugged and Matt's had his hand shaken so many times he's lost count. "The ceremony's in two hours, we leave in one."

The Nelson family is a little overwhelming at their quietest, and today isn't a quiet day. Foggy puts a hand at his elbow to stir him to Candace’s bedroom so he can get changed. She hasn't touched him in so long it feels like it's the first time and he blushes like a fool. She doesn't see it, simply murmurs, "You're not supposed to know where you're going, sorry."

"It's fine. My senses are a bit under attack right now so a little help is more than welcome." Foggy chuckles beside him. He could probably focus more and get by just fine. He doesn't want to.

He puts on his best costume, the one he keeps for religious celebrations that Father Lantom says he looks too dashing in and the women at mass don't pray as hard because of it. 

Outside the bedroom, the place is a madhouse of running children and laughing adults so, once Matt is done adjusting his tie and lacing his shiny shoes, he lets his senses search for Foggy so he knows when to step out. _Asocial poodle_ echoes in his head and he smiles in spite of himself. His hearing finds her in the bathroom with her mother, who is zipping up – her dress, dammit. They're talking but the overall atmosphere doesn't seem as chipper as it should be.

"Mom, no. I all but threw myself at him a few months back and he _flipped_. He was _horrified_. I was wearing my prettiest dress and it had no effect whatsoever. He doesn't want me. Tuck the zipper in?"

"I think you're wrong, baby," Anna Nelson sighs as she does what Foggy asked.

"All signs point to no but- Let's not talk about this anymore unless you want me to start crying like a heartbroken teenager. Candace will kill me if I look all bloated in my godson's baptism photos."

"I'll let you finish here, then; I think your father was hoping to sneak out with Cousin Julius to go play poker in the garage. I need to make sure it doesn't happen, he's terrible when Matt's not here to tell him if Julius is bluffing."

Matt is seeing Daredevil red for the first time in months, jealousy angrily churning through his stomach and trying to crawl up his throat. He'd been too absorbed in his night life and in Fisk to give much thought to Hair Gel Simon but- that guy thinks he’s too good for Foggy? Matt's sure that if he digs deep enough he can find a reason to beat him up; someone who plays with other people's money for a living has to have a bit of dirt on him. Foggy's too good for him anyway.

He steps out when he hears Foggy unlock the bathroom, 

" _Oh_ ," is Foggy's reaction when she sees him. "Looking sharp, Murdock." Her heartbeat ratchets up, her palms get clammy and her body temperature rises. Father Lantom was probably right about his fellow church-goers, then. He's very flattered that Foggy doesn't seem immune to his good suit – in spite of the feelings she obviously has for Simon. 

"And what are you wearing?" he asks with the raise of an eyebrow, dangerously close to flirting. He needs Foggy to understand how beautiful she is, though, and she doesn't shut him down so it's alright.

"Can't you tell with your spidey sense?" she shoots back as she crosses her arms in front of her. "Can't you _always_ tell?"

"I've got a general sense of it, which is how I know you're wearing a dress that's almost knee-length but not quite. Things like fabric and patterns are still lost on me, though." Foggy nods like she's satisfied with the answer, hair brushing against her shoulders, and Matt decides that honesty is the best policy as long as honesty isn't creepy. It's a fine line he'll have to learn to walk.

"It's a special occasion, I wanted to look nice in the photos for when my nephew's old enough to look at them, so he can be like, 'dang, who's that hot mamma?'"

"I hope he never speaks like that," Matt grimaces.

"He'll obviously be the coolest kid on the block with a godmother like me, so he'll talk like a proper gentleman. Okay. I still need to do my make-up and Brianna said she'd braid my hair, so let's go. You get to sit with me and listen to her chat my ear off for twenty minutes, how lucky are you? Those supervillains will feel like a walk in the park after this, come on," she says as she extends her arm to him.

"You're wearing heels, too." She's taller than usual and he can hear the rhythmic click-click as she walks. 

"Easy."

"Stilettos." 

"Now you're just showing off. Can you also tell they're way too high and I don't know how to walk in them?" she adds wryly.

"As a matter of fact-"

"Oh, shut up."

Matt's still beaming when they meet everyone downstairs, dodging cousins of various ages and sizes until they're entering the living-room, Foggy calling out for Brianna.

"Oh my _God_ , look at you two!" Foggy's mom gasps. "You look so great! And you match! This will make for such nice photos, won't it, Cande?"

"We match?" Matt whispers to Foggy while her entire family weighs in on their fashion situation.

"Kinda? Your suit and my dress are both navy blue, and your shirt's white like the butterflies on my dress. And my shoes. Bet you couldn't tell what color they were, uh, Spidey?"

"You've got me there, Nelson," he smiles again and lightly squeezes Foggy's bare arm.

"Everyone chill out," she shouts to be heard above the dozen people currently in the living-room, "we didn't mean to pull a red carpet on you guys, it's purely accidental."

"Can we get to the part where I braid your hair, Aunt Francine? Because I've got three other clients after you," Brianna interjects mercifully. "Maybe we can talk about how you're basically Brangelina after the ceremony?" 

"Right. You're no longer my favorite niece, in case you were wondering." Brianna gives a very Nelson cackle.

Brianna is no longer Matt's favorite niece either when, twenty minutes later, she insists Matt needs to touch Foggy's updo, a thick yet elegant braid that goes around her head like a crown, a few strands escaping to frame her face. They're both blushing scarlet, he can feel the warmth radiating off of Foggy's cheeks, and also the glee radiating off of Brianna.

The ceremony is classic as far as these things go: the baby wails like he really doesn’t want to be placed in the loving hands of God and everyone is so proud it’s almost tangible. Then it’s time for photos on the church’s steps and Matt’s standing to the side until everyone’s had their picture taken in at least three different groups and they’re calling for everyone to stand together for the final group photo. He ends up squished between Foggy and Aunt Phyllis, who still puts on way too much perfume and makes the whole thing an ordeal on his senses no matter how hard he tries to focus on Foggy instead; it’s like the cloying scent has reached behind his _eyeballs_. There’s no other explanation as to why he doesn’t anticipate Foggy crashing into him with a cut-off cry followed by a tirade of mumbled swear words. He only has the presence of mind to wrap an arm around her as she struggles to stay upright. “Are you okay?” he enquires immediately, ignoring the ruckus her family is making around them. “What just happened?” "I can't walk in stilettos and twisted my ankle, that’s what happened. _Dammit_ , why did I think this was a good idea. I’m fine, Mom,” she adds for a concerned Anna Nelson. “Just a bit humiliated but I'm f- _Ow_. Okay, maybe not that fine. You know what just let me die here."

“If I do that, Karen will have my head, and I don’t want to imagine what Marci will come up with to make me suffer,” he says. “Now come on, you shouldn’t put weight on your ankle for now.”

Foggy squeaks when Matt picks her up bridal style. His hand is holding her bare thigh but it's fine, he's got this.

"Oh, Matthew, honey, are you sure thi-"

"It's fine, mom, don't worry: the car is literally straight ahead." Her mouth grazes the shell of his ear, sending a flurry of shivers down his back. "Don't you drop me, Murdock."

"Not a chance."

He makes good on his word, going straight to the car as Foggy guides him for the benefit of her relatives. He's very careful as he puts her back down, opens the door for her and helps her in. 

"Can I?" he asks with his hands above her leg as Foggy’s mom climbs behind the wheel. 

"Why? Are you a medic now?" she says skeptically.

"Let's just say I'm pretty good at telling minor injuries from major ones."

There's a beat of silence like she's considering it, then, "You're showing off again but okay, let's try it."

She hisses when he takes her shoe off even though he's as gentle as possible. He brushes his fingertips to Foggy's naked skin before he wraps his hands around her ankle very softly. Foggy sucks in a breath. Matt can tell it doesn't have a thing to do with pain and his heart starts racing like he's in a Jane Austen novel or something. Foggy’s not any better off.

But look, Foggy's not wearing tights and her skin is so smooth and frankly Matt's been a bit touch-starved since they had their fight and she stopped dishing out hugs left and right; these are all perfectly valid reasons to be swooning because you're touching your best friend's ankle.

"It's not sprained," he says lowly. "It was close, though." 

"Okay," she squeaks out again.

"Oh my God, they are _so_ married," someone whispers from outside the car. Matt snaps back to attention: focused as he was on Foggy, he'd completely blocked the outside world. He'd apparently also blocked the fact that his thumb is running back and forth on the fine skin of Foggy's ankle.

The ride is mostly silent as he holds her lower leg in his lap, officially to keep it from being jostled too much, and they're back at the house in a flash. By then everyone's already taken the incident in stride and some guests even got a head start on the buffet.

"You're not carrying me inside," Foggy warns him while her mom dashes inside to get her a pair of flats. "Do you have any idea what it looked like when you picked me up? Like I weight nothing? You're a sedentary, blind lawyer, you're not supposed to be this beefy!"

"You think I'm beefy?" he smirks, pleased that she sounds a bit flustered.

Foggy's mom interrupts her daughter's indignant sputtering as she opens the door and ushers them inside, Foggy hobbling and hanging onto Matt's shoulder when he stubbornly assures the few relatives still outside that he's got her. 

"I like the butterflies," he says a propos of nothing once they're settled at a table in a corner with a plate heaped with appetizers.

"The butterflies?" Foggy frowns around a mouthful of petit-four.

"On your dress. I felt them while I was carrying you, they're a different material. It was like... a swarm, taking flight. Did I get that right?" 

"Do you want to check for yourself?"

The proposition stuns him silent and his whole body lights up like it’s begging him to accept; Foggy sounds like she means it, at least for about three seconds before her heart starts beating a panicked rhythm.

"Are you offering?" he rushes out before she can backtrack. He makes sure his face is as serious as possible so she doesn't think he's joking. It's Foggy's turn to be struck silent, although her heartbeat redoubles. 

He's about to properly explain himself when they’re mobbed by a flurry of little Nelsons. "Aunt Francine! Come dance with us!"

"Ah, I'm afraid it's not happening for now, kids. Maybe later if my old body cooperates." The children all whine their disappointment so, before she ends up with a mutiny on her hands, Foggy adds, "Oh, but do you know who really wants to dance? My good buddy Matt here. He was just telling me the other day that he wanted to learn how to do the Macarena, right, Matt?"

He doesn't. He really, really doesn't. But in the face of the unexpected joy his participation seems to call out of the kids, Matt reluctantly stands up.

"You owe me, Aunt Francine," he whispers in her ear. She shivers and covers it up with a light-hearted laugh.

It's... a lesson in humility, that dance lesson. He can't actually tell what's worse, being told to "move his hips better" by an eight-year-old boy or the stench of schadenfreude he’s drowning in. Everyone is watching and about five different people are recording this on their phone.

And Foggy... Foggy's having the time of her life, her laughter bright in his ears as she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. It's a far cry from the tension that's been keeping them apart so Matt endures his dance lesson a bit longer just to hear more of that precious laughter.

Once he's got the Macarena down and they want to teach him the Gangnam Style next, which has Foggy positively howling, he excuses himself from the dance floor to go back to his and Foggy's corner. 

"I trust that was satisfactory?" he asks. "It was very cruel of you, feeding a defenseless blind guy to the children without a second thought," he says as he drains a glass of water. "Heartless."

"I'd say I'm sorry but I'm really the opposite of that," she chuckles as a slower song comes on.

"Well, I think it's not fair that I should be the only one looking like a fool, so stand up," he says as he extends a hand out to her.

She immediately slips her hand into his but makes no move to rise. "Why? What are we doing?"

"Dancing, of course. You can dance with your leg up like a flamingo."

"You think you’re so funny."

"Come on," he says as he gently tugs her up and into his chest. "Nobody puts baby in the corner."

"Oh my God, that is so bad," she giggles and blushes at the same time. 

"You love it," he preens, because he can hear that she does in her heartbeat and feel it in the wide smile she's pressing into his shirt to stiffle her giggles. "Are you doing the flamingo?"

"Yes, Matt, I am doing the flamingo."

"Good."

Foggy doesn't hold the position, as it turns out, uses her tiptoes to move when just swaying in place starts to feel a bit too middle school. It's got the added benefit of pushing her up further against him and Matt holds her closer, feeling the damned butterflies under his fingertips and a whole lot of Foggy.

He irrationally thinks about Hair Gel Simon and how he could've had all that and just... passed, feeling a bolt of anger go through him. What an asshole.

"Thank you for helping me earlier," she says in a small voice.

"Any time, Fog," he says with a kiss to her forehead. "Any time."

When the song is over, Matt makes his way over to the buffet to reload their plate with more petits-fours when he overhears his name being spoken and automatically tunes in.

"I had no idea Matt was so strong!" Anna Nelson is telling her daughter, something cunning in her voice that reminds him of Foggy in court, when she’s about to pull the ace she's got up her sleeve to stump the jury.

"Right? He's just full of surprises, isn't he?" Foggy asks warily, not deceived for a second.

"He cares about you a lot, doesn't he?"

"Mom," Foggy very nearly snaps. "You said you'd drop it." 

"Okay, okay," she replies in a placating tone. "I'm just saying this isn't the behavior of someone who doesn’t want you and is _'horrified with what he saw'_."

Matt takes a few seconds to place in what context he’s heard those words before and when it finally clicks, he feels a bit dizzy. He replays the snippet of conversation he caught that morning, words jumping at him and making him feel like he’s the most insensitive douchebag ever but also like Christmas has come early: Foggy _likes_ him.

“Could we not do this while he’s standing – right here, _shit_ ,” she grumbles as she notices Matt looking in their general direction, probably resembling someone who’s been doused in cold water. 

Before he’s had the time to react, Foggy is limping out of the room as fast as her ankle will allow. “We’re not doing this here,” she mutters so only he can hear. It’s the least elegant flight he’s ever witnessed and Matt is completely, irrevocably in love with this ridiculous woman. The need to tell her is suffocating. 

He’s got no problem finding her in Candace’s bedroom. The door’s ajar so he slips inside, but he stays there, just in case she tells him to go to hell. For now though, she’s sitting on the bed, her head in her hands like she’s devastated.

“Would you believe me if I said we weren’t talking about you? I horrify a lot of people.” 

“I know for a fact that isn’t true, and you certainly don’t horrify me,” he replies. “Foggy, that day at the firm-“

“I’d be very grateful if you could save the ‘I think you’re great’ speech for after we got home.”

Matt chuckles under his breath, half-mad with how much he wants to hold her at this point. “Yeah, no, that wasn’t what I was going to say. Foggy, do you – like me?” She groans and throws herself backwards on the bed, hands over her face but he can feel the warmth her cheeks are giving off through her fingers. “Answer the question, Fog.”

“You already know the answer, don’t you? Are you pulling my leg right now?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t do that, you’re hurt,” he replies, motioning towards her ankle. There’s a blink of silence before Foggy explodes in nervous little giggles, bedsprings creaking under her body. He waits her out, a tiny smile on his face so she knows he doesn’t begrudge her this moment.

“I needed that,” she says as she’s getting her breath back. Then she sighs. “You’ve got your own lie detector, Matt, why are you even asking? And I wasn’t exactly subtle.”

He flounders. “I didn’t know.”

She must see how surprised he is on his face and doesn’t question him. “How could you _not_ know?”

“Um, I’m… blind?”

“You’re also basically a bat so I’m not buying that. How you missed my heart playing pinball in my chest for years is a bit mind-boggling. Couldn’t you like, smell my swoon or something?”

“There are many reasons why a heart would beat faster. Apparently I’ve been misreading yours.”

Maybe it was his infamous martyr complex, his inner voice (which sounds a lot like Foggy) provides, that prevented him from letting himself have this; it was impossible that someone as amazing as Foggy would want him. Did he even deserve her? Does he, now?

“So, do you think we can move past this? Please take into account the fact that I merely gave you the finger and yelled at you a little when I found out about your nocturnal activities, so if I can work on accepting that, surely you can make an effort, too?” Her heart is doing somersaults again, belying her laid-back tone.

“Are you… attracted to me right now, or just nervous?” He doesn’t trust himself anymore when it comes to her.

“Oh my God, just answer the question, Matt!”

“Counter offer: we don’t move past this; instead, you let me kiss you because I’ve been in love with you for years. Then we grow old together and die in each other’s arms, Notebook-style.”

Foggy says nothing for what feels like a long time. He doesn’t try to read her heart – it’s hammering and doesn’t seem to want to slow down. This time, though, Matt doesn’t have to wonder what the silence means, doesn’t have to assume she’s revolted; he lounges back against the wall and lets her process what he just confessed. Maybe he went a bit overboard with the Notebook part, but he wouldn’t take it back for the world. He can hear her breath catch on every sentence she doesn’t start until she finally clears her throat.

“What’s the catch?” The question has him frowning. “There’s got to be a catch because you just offered me everything eighteen-year-old Foggy has ever dreamed of and it’s too good to be true.”

“There’s no catch, other than I come with a Devil suit included. I can’t guarantee an alien invasion or an army of undead ninjas won’t throw a wrench into the happy end I have planned.” She swears under her breath. “Other than that, no catch.”

More silence yet, until she stands from the bed to come stand in front of him, nothing but a few inches separating them.

“I’m probably high on paracetamol and hallucinating,” she sighs. “Are you sure about this?”

He sighs, too: how could he have any doubts? She’s _Foggy_. He reaches up until his palm is cradling her cheek and she nuzzles into it. “Eighteen-year-old Matt was already sure so, yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay. I accept your counter offer, then.”

There’s a happy smile in her voice so he leans down a little and finally, _finally_ kisses her. It’s pretty awful because he’s smiling through it, but Foggy doesn’t seem to mind, just sobs out a little laugh he kisses right off her lips the way he’s been dreaming of doing for years, so it’s perfect.

“Are you feeling up my dress?” she asks, because yes, he is. 

“Is that okay?” he asks tentatively, pressing down on her waist where he’s got his hand. He wants to touch _everywhere_.

“Yes, buddy,” she says with a peck that catches the corner of his mouth. “It’s extremely okay. I guess you really like this dress, huh?”

“This one, all the other ones, as long as you’re in them.”

“Urgh, are you going to be this schmoopy all the time, because a woman could get used to that,” she groans into his chest, making him laugh. The past few minutes have been a shoot of endorphins straight to his brain, he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself, it’s like someone opened a faucet of happiness and left it to overflow. 

“Not all the time, I want to keep you on your toes,” he says as he wraps her up in his arms.

“How about we let the Devil do that, and Matt keeps on being super sweet?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Nelson.”


	6. THE Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is very self-indulgent and everyone probably saw it coming two thousand miles away. Oh, well!  
> I hope you enjoyed the story!

He waits until Foggy’s finally, blessedly alone to slip into the room. He’s managed to escape everyone’s notice, using all the cunning at his disposition and only the tiniest bit of parkour so he wouldn’t ruin his suit.

“Matt!” she gasps when she sees him in the mirror where she’s admiring herself. “What are you doing here?"

“I’m here to see your dress," he says with a shit-eating grin as he beelines for his bride-to-be, grabs her around the waist and places a sound kiss on her mouth.

She huffs out a laugh when he releases her. "May I remind you you’re not supposed to see me at all?” 

“Technically, I’m not,” he says, pointing at his glasses before he starts running his hands all over Foggy's hips, feeling a whole lot of flowy tulle.

"You and your weird dress fetish," she says fondly. "You know, you're the only reason I started wearing them in the first place."

"Am I?" he frowns.

"You told me I was pretty the first time I wore one." Foggy hasn't sounded so unsure in a long while. Since the early stages of their romantic relationship, in fact, when she would sometimes ask him to pinch her to make sure this was real. He pinched her, but she got to pinch him as well, especially on mornings after he'd been out Daredeviling and he felt like he'd messd up big time, that Foggy couldn't possibly stick around in spite of all that. She would pinch him, but after, she would always soothe the hurt with a kiss. "I liked that you thought I was pretty so I tried to make it happen again."

"You're pretty all the time," he whispers against her lips, cradling her face in his hands.

"Well, I know that _now_ but I didn't at the time!" 

"I do, however," he adds with a wicked smirk, "particularly enjoy your dresses."

She bursts into a laugh so he goes back to exploring her dress. He's got two fistfuls of light, soft tulle, rucks the fabric up a little to see how it feels in his hands.

"You're going to ruin it," Foggy protests weakly.

"Oh, I absolutely intend on ruining it," he says lowly. "But not right now. Tonight."

"Matt," she says, a hotter kind of warning in her voice.

"Tonight."

His hands wander higher, feeling the way her belly shivers as he smoothes his hands past it, more tulle yet until he reaches the embroidered satin belt just under her chest. Her breath catches as his fingertips stroke beneath the curve of her breasts, where the lace starts. Foggy's response to his touch is in his nose and on his tongue and it's as satisfying as ever. Meanwhile, his heart is hammering a steady beat of _Foggy, Foggy, Foggy_ at his temples, flooding the rest of his body with the same message.

"I'm just going to make sure this is quality lace."

"Uh-huh, of course, please do. Quality control is important." 

His hands follow her contours, delighting in the roundness and the movements of her quietly heaving chest. He reaches her shoulders where the lace pattern changes, becomes so simple it's got to be see-through, so he goes back down to get a feel of the actual neckline, down, down until his fingers meet in the deepest part of the V where Foggy's skin is the most sensitive. He licks his lips, can't really help it, and Foggy's heartbeat surges.

"What do you think, then?" she asks breathlessly.

"I think I should check the back, too."

He's clear-minded enough to be mindful of the dress when he steps closer, but barely. He draws her in to wrap his arms around her and immediately buries his face in the crook of her neck where she's the warmest and smells the most like Foggy. She tilts her head to the side to accomodate him and wraps her own arms around him, claws at his suit as if to keep him there. There's more lace at the back of her dress and a row of satin buttons his fingers climb one by one. His lips punctuate each one with a kiss up her throat until Foggy is whining a little.

He's just grabbed a handful of her butt when he freezes. Foggy immediately gets it and drops her arms. She quickly tries to smooth out the wrinkles on his jacket, like he cares; he'll happily wear nothing but rumpled clothes for the rest of his life if Foggy's enthusiasm is the main cause for them.

"Your father's on his way," he says with a chaste kiss to her forehead that is so far from what he wants to do to her right now.

"Go, then," she sighs. "I suppose you're going to want to escape through the window?"

"Yep. You're gorgeous, by the way."

"Thank you," she beams before she presses a soft, lingering kiss to his lips and takes his hand to drag him to the window. "Now go."

He's already outside and almost gone when he turns back to his very-very-soon-to-be wife. "You know what my favorite look is on you, though?"

"What is it, Matty?" she humors him.

"Silk."

"I don't own anything made of silk," she says, and he can hear the frown in her voice so he grins.

"Our bedsheets are made of silk. I can't wait until you put them on tonight."

Foggy groans as he turns and disappears the moment Foggy's father knocks on the door. "That was very smooth, Murdock," she murmurs. "Way to get a girl all hot and bothered and then vanish. I'll get you for that, you tease: you haven't felt what I've planned on wearing for our wedding night."


End file.
